I don’t know how you spent your time in college, but a sizable chunk of mine was devoted to finding a quiet place to take a shit on campus.
Why is making doodie taboo? According to my research, almost all of us do it. Bathroom conversation is riddled in hypocrisy. Oh sure, it’s perfectly acceptable to announce your departure from your Panera Bread booth with an “I have to pee.” Nary a soul will look up from his Broccoli Cheddar bread bowl. But dare utter the natural urge to evacuate solid waste and you’ll be banished to tearfully eating the Asiago Roast Beef Sandwich in solitary confinement.
And don’t get me started on women. They can’t wait to tell you that your Facebook status was so funny that it made them “pee their pants.” Yet the entire female population of the world continues to deny that they have ever dropped a deuce. I’m not buying it, ladies! You gotta be doing something else in there! I’m like, 90 sure. Also, every girl you know has at least one picture of them either sitting on the toilet, or squatting in the street floating around the Internet somewhere. They love it! It’s cute! It’s funny! No it’s not. It’s fucking stupid. Want to make me laugh? Upload a picture of your friend Melissa blasting tequila shits the morning after. At least it’s relatable.
I must confess however, I am not immune to the social mores designated for defecation. In fact, I’m consumed with them. Whether at school, the office, a restaurant, or a my grandma’s funeral, I’ve been overcome with tremendous anxiety and neurosis every time I feel some pressure in my lower abdomen.
Let’s first begin with stall bathrooms. Oh, how I loathe thee. Tell me there’s a more unsettling feeling than walking past a desired stall only to be met by a pair of hairy legs wearing a boxer-brief hat. On the off chance that you do happen upon an empty lavatory, it’s only a matter of time once you take a seat. The moment somebody enters while I’m pushing one out, I am transported to World War II era-Poland. I become a Jewish orphan hiding under the floorboards, and the intruder is now an Einsatzgruppen sniffing me out. Each deliberate step of his boot pushes me deeper into madness. What’s taking him so long? What is he doing? BRO GET THE FUCK OUT OF THIS BATHROOM SO I CAN TAKE A SHIT IN SOLITUDE!!! Ugh, it’s awful. Never forget.
The single occupancy bathrooms in restaurants and at parties are no better. Sure, there’s an illusion of privacy. Look, a lock! That moment of serenity instantly vanishes when you see the knob begin to turn. I try to articulate a proper plea, but I end up sputtering out something like, “NNN-NO! SOMEONE! HERE!” Pathetic. It doesn’t even make sense. Who is the fuck is ‘Someone’? Bitch, I’m me. Just once I’d like to calmly warn the intruder, “My apologies, but it is I, Evan Krumholz of Old Westbury, Son of David! Please return on the morrow, for I am presently doing a poopy!” Instead, I rush my potty time and end up having to do the duck-walk and avoid sitting down because everything is all achy.
So what is to be done? Can I just release my hang-ups and dump brazenly within nose-sniff of others? I think not. We need to change the culture, like we did with gay marriage. If we’re all equal, can’t we all acknowledge and embrace who we are, instead of having to head to the 5th floor of the stacks? Too many people already know about it, Bro.
I’m here with open arms? Want to discuss your shitting anxiety? I know you’re out there, please share in the comments section, and let the healing process begin. Cue that awful Macklemore song.